Not Yours
by Snape's Nightie
Summary: At the age of eleven, Snape is small, but not exactly defenceless. LMSS. Warnings for underage fifth year,first year slash. Not graphic.
1. Chapter 1

Warning: Slash, mentions chan (underage, very underage, in fact), non-graphic.

Rosier knew nothing of how these things worked in other houses, naturally, but in Slytherin there was a long tradition of something referred to as 'mentoring a brat'.

It was usually only after leaving Hogwarts that one realised its proper name. Child molesting. But once outside the school, it was easy to forget the strangely enclosed feeling of living below ground in the dungeons, where one stuck to time-honoured traditions as a way of coping. Coping with the fact that no one outside Slytherin gave a stuff about you. The fact that you were hundreds of miles from your mum, your canine best-friend, your own bed, your house elf's apple crumble, or whatever else you tried not to cry for at night.

Evan himself had been rather relieved when a fifth year boy had cornered him behind the broomsheds and offered him chocolate frogs in exchange for a quick fumble, during his third week at school. Maplethorpe had been his mentor for the two years before he left and they were still in touch. He knew that by and large, the older boys got more out of the arrangement than the younger, but with the cosy glow of nostalgia, Rosier only remembered the cuddles, the presents and the comforting feeling that, though he was just another small boy in an impersonal sea of black-uniformed children, there was someone who paid extra attention to him.

Often, the prettiest brats turned out to be bones of contention between the older 'mentors'. His first memory of witnessing a proper unsupervised duel had been the spectacular scrap between Fudge and Wigley over who got the loveliest cherub in Rosier's year - the sassy and devastatingly cute Lucius Malfoy. Fudge had won of course, being far and away more sneaky, nasty and adept at cheating than Wigley. Little Malfoy had watched avidly, taking note of the more dangerous spells, loving every minute of it.

It seemed like only days ago. Now they were fifth years themselves, prefects even, and Malf had already chosen himself a brat. He opened the door to the study room a crack, puzzling at the sight before him.

Snape, the kid was called. What kind of a name was that? Rosier reminded himself to ask his grandmother, that fountain of knowledge regarding everyone's ancestry, about who the Snapes were. He couldn't understand what had possessed Malfoy to pick this one. There were eight Slytherin first year boys this year, and every one of the other seven were better looking than this scrawny little thing. His robes were hand-me-down, his accent and vocabulary a blueprint of how not to speak in public, and - Merlin's nadgers! - that ghastly nose had to be growing twice as fast as the rest of him.

Why on earth did Malfoy bother? There had to be a reason which was not obvious at first glance. A secret lurking deep in those devious black eyes, or perhaps he was already experienced in the Gentle Art, courtesy of some uncle or private tutor. There had to be something. The Malfoys had a reputation for enjoying only the very best of everything.

Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Rosier pushed open the door and entered, closing it carefully behind him. Snape swung around and glared with such bitter hatred it momentarily stopped the older boy in his tracks.

"What?" spat the kid, wand raised. Normally, there was no need to fear threats of magic from first years, not so early in the school year anyway, but there were interesting rumours about this one's hexing skills. He restrained his reflex instinct to clip the cheeky whelp behind the ear. Instead, he smiled and sidled up to the table, sitting beside Snape on the bench.

"Hello there," he gave an endearing smile and leaned over, too close. "What are you working on? Prep? Do you need any help?"

"No," sneered Snape, looking offended, rather than flattered, as any normal first year should be at receiving such attention.

"What is it then?" he tried not to show his consternation.

"I'm trying to find a spell to slice someone in half," he announced matter-of-factly.

Rosier swallowed.

"Really?" for some reason, he knew the kid was not joking.

"Yes," the big nose buried itself back in the book, apparently losing interest in the interruption.

Malfoy's fascination suddenly began to make sense. Snape was not attractive, or cute or homesick or possessed of any of the other natural virtues traditionally sought out by a mentor. Instead, he was clever. And nasty. And, though Rosier would never admit it, the child was oddly frightening.

A thrill of desire shot through the fifth year's stomach and into his groin, stronger than any previous fleeting interest in pert or angelic eleven year olds. He reached out a hand to stroke the brat's hair.

"What are you doing?" snarled Snape, jerking away.

Rosier grabbed hold of him.

"Don't be silly, brat, the more connections you can make in this life, the better, didn't anyone ever tell you that?" he purred, pulling the skinny body against him.

There was a hiss of magic and pain, lots of pain. When he opened his eyes, Rosier found that he was lying on his back on the floor, stargazing. Which was odd as he knew for a fact that it was a) indoors, and b) daytime. Blinking, he looked up into the ugly face looming over him.

"Hoi!" he croaked, outraged at being hexed and intimidated by a slip of a boy. Snape raised his wand again and Rosier was horrified to find that he was cowering.

"Don't ever touch me," the child growled.

"Oh, come on," began Evan. "I didn't mean any harm. You're just a brat..."

"Yes," he narrowed his eyes until they were two slits of dangerous malevolence. "But I'm Lucius' brat. Not yours."

He slammed his book of curses closed with an echoing bang and stomped out of the room, fierce eyes never leaving Rosier's prone body.

Rosier blinked.

Then licked his lips.

Yes, Malfoys _did_ enjoy the best of everything after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Rosier made his way to the Great Hall for dinner, feeling slightly disorientated from whatever the Snape brat had hexed him with. 

He ate mechanically, with only half an ear on Mulciber's critique of the figures of the Gryffindor sixth year girls. It was not the first time the matter had been discussed - Molly Prewett won on every occasion, even though most boys at the Slytherin table would be disinherited or perhaps even disowned if word ever reached their parents.

Idly scanning the room, he noticed that Malfoy was conspicuously absent. The little clique of adoring hangers-on was scattered and silent, not sure what they ought to talk about without their charismatic leader. His brat was also nowhere to be seen, which was less odd, as the child obviously didn't eat properly, probably enjoying the power of having the whole library to himself while the rest of the school stuffed themselves silly.

He felt slightly better after a generous helping of dragonherd's pie, but thought that a little nap would be a good idea before attempting the horrendous Transfiguration essay McGonagall was torturing them with that week. Rosier thanked Merlin he had only one more year of compulsory lessons with the ferocious Deputy Head, though there was the small matter of OWLs to go through first. He shuddered and pushed away his empty plate. Yes, a refreshing nap was definitely in order.

Pushing open the door to his dorm he did a double take.

Goyle was sitting on his bed, comfortably flicking through the treasured copy of 'Playwizard' he had pinched from the newsagent in Hogsmeade and kept carefully hidden at the bottom of his trunk.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" he snapped, furious. There were so many small points of etiquette being breached here. For a start, in the communal muck-in-together atmosphere of boarding school, the only time a chap got any privacy was in his bed. You just didn't go around invading someone's space like that. And the peer-group penalties for rummaging through another boy's porn collection were enough to make your hair stand on end.

There was a snigger from the other side of the room. Rosier wondered how he had failed to spot the enormous bulk of Crabbe lurking next to the wardrobe, trying on a pair of green gloves which looked suspiciously like the ones Evan's granny had sent for his birthday the previous week. He pulled out his wand.

"I don't know what the bloody hell you two think you're up to..." he yelled, but was cut off by the sound of the ancient door creaking shut behind him. He closed his eyes.

Ah.

He must have been befuddled, not to put Thug and Thug together and make Trouble.

"Do excuse Tiberius and Vincent," Lucius Malfoy's silken voice purred behind him. "They are here at my request."

Rosier turned slowly. The school's most handsome, powerful and wealthy teenager was leaning nonchalantly against the door, picking at his fingernails with a tiny silver knife, elegantly blocking the only exit.

"Malf," he flashed a friendly grin, trying to remind his classmate of their five-year long association. "What's up, mate?"

"Are we invading your space?" The blond boy asked pleasantly.

"Er," Rosier looked from Crabbe to Goyle. Both were looking pleased with themselves. It was disconcerting.

"Messing about with your property?" Lucius continued.

Evan swallowed.

"Touching things which don't belong to us?" He pocketed the knife and gave a predatory smile.

"I don't know what you're talking about, mate," lied Rosier, as the knut dropped. The blasted kid had sneaked on him to his mentor and now he was in serious danger of having twenty shades of crap beaten out of him.

Lucius strode forward, pulling out his wand and examining it as though he'd never seen one before.

"Then perhaps I ought to enlighten you," he explained politely. With a gesture towards his heavies, he began: "You find it unpleasant to see others using your possessions without your permission, do you not?" Rosier was unable to make a sound, frozen by cool grey eyes in front of him and the presence of highly-muscled danger behind. "No wonder. It is a perfectly normal human reaction, to protect what is one's own. Imagine then my dismay, when I discovered that you have been touching things of mine which you have no right to be touching."

"Malfoy, I..." The sight of Crabbe and Goyle rising and flexing their meaty fists horrified him into speech.

"No, no, Evan," Malfoy held up a manicured hand, still displaying that flawless politeness which somehow made the whole situation worse. "We are friends, you and I. There is no need for harsh words between friends. You _will not_ be so foolish again, I know it."

Rosier's mouth was dry with dread, but he managed to nod.

"Of course not," Lucius patted him on the shoulder, jerking his head to dismiss the others. They looked very disappointed and could be heard grumbling all the way down the corridor. He leaned close to Rosier, so that their faces were almost touching as he whispered: "Severus is my brat. Get your own."

"Yes, Lucius," he breathed.

Malfoy straightened up with a grin of satisfaction and shed his terrifying attitude, stretching his arms until the joints popped and yawning informally.

"So, Rosie. Have you done that evil Transfig essay yet?"

Evan shook his head. He suddenly found that he had to sit down and collapsed untidily onto the bed. The tension of the past few minutes had made his head spin. Crabbe and Goyle were notorious for delivering a good hard pasting to anyone who offended Malfoy, often comparing notes on technique and effect. It had been too close for comfort.

"Me neither. Come on," Lucius grabbed his friend's hand and hauled him up, ignoring a miserable groan of protest. Without a trace of irony he outlined his plan. "Let's go and steal one off the Gryffindors."

'Other people's property,' mused Evan, to himself, repeating the alarming lesson he had just learned. Touching another man's brat was just as bad as stealing homework, but he was Slytherin enough to recognise the difference. There were people whose property you respected, and those whose you didn't.


End file.
